Nevermore

Memory, memory, what do you want of me? Autumn

Makes the thrush fly through colourless air,

And the sun casts its monotonous glare

On the yellowing woods where the north winds hum.

We were alone, and walking in dream,

She and I, hair and thoughts wind-blown.

Then, turning her troubling gaze on me,

‘Your loveliest day?’ in her voice of fine gold,

Her voice, with its angel’s tone, fresh, vibrant, sweet.

I gave her my answer, a smile so discreet,

And kissed her white hand with devotion.

– Ah! The first flowers, what a fragrance they have!

And how charming the murmured emotion

Of a first ‘yes’ let slip from lips that we love!

A Paul Verlaine poem will be added here every day

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